The neon lights of the "Blue Velvet" lounge were just blurred streaks against the rain-slicked window. Inside, the air tasted of expensive gin and fading perfume.

The slowed, hollowed-out beat of the instrumental pulsed through the floorboards—less a song and more a heartbeat under sedation. Elias sat in the corner booth, his glass sweating onto the mahogany table. He wasn't waiting for anyone; he was waiting for a feeling to leave.

Should we add a to bridge the gap between them, or